


Stalked

by bratfarrar



Series: As Holy Palmers [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:18:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bratfarrar/pseuds/bratfarrar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the cure is almost as bad as the disease.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stalked

**Author's Note:**

> Written ages ago for [Siegeofangel](http://siegeofangels.livejournal.com)'s [fakeout makeout comment fest](http://siegeofangels.livejournal.com/383539.html).

He really had no desire to do it, and he really should’ve known better than to let himself get trapped like this in the first place, but the girl (old enough to be a woman, but sure didn’t behave like it) just wouldn’t take no for an answer. And it’d been a long year, full of shrinking gene pools, and for some reason the women kept targeting him.

Which wasn’t fair, because no matter what Rodney claimed, John was not the Pegasus galaxy’s James T. Kirk and he had no desire to become it. He’d watched enough Star Trek to know that.

The girl was bearing down on him now like a bloodhound, even as he gave her his best ‘Hi, yeah, no’ smile, which had as much effect as all the other subtle and not-so subtle hints he’d dropped that he just wasn’t interested, thanks anyway. Unfortunately, she was well-connected and the expedition needed those connections at the moment, so it wasn’t like he could say _stay the hell away from me_ without pissing off someone important.

His back was against the wall—literally—or he’d high-tail it out of there. Rodney was oblivious, staring at his scanner and mumbling to himself, and Teyla and Ford had gone off somewhere to barter for cloth or something on behalf of the Athosians, so he couldn’t expect the cavalry to ride in anytime soon. Which meant his choice was down to kiss or be kissed, and he didn’t think this society had ever heard of the toothbrush.

So he snagged Rodney by the shoulder, placed a sweaty hand against the back of his neck and a fervently chaste kiss on his lips, and hoped to heaven that was enough of a display to get the message across.

A glance over his shoulder told him it was: the girl was wearing a thunderous expression, but didn’t look likely to kick up a ruckus.

“Major, what the h—” Rodney, on the other hand. . . .

John sighed, and kissed him again. For verisimilitude, of course. Nothing to do with shutting him up.


End file.
